turning
by synchronysymphony
Summary: an outline of a fic I should totally write


Melancholy has never suited Cosette. Even in the darkest times of her life, she's tried to cling to the tiny spars of hope that seem to manifest without warning in tender gestures and dropped flowers on a lonesome park bench and the myriad tiny delights that seem to spring up in the most unexpected of places. As a child, she'd stolen time from overwork to play with her little lead sword (the one toy she'd had to call her own), and as a young woman, she'd danced in the garden and wove daisies into her hair. Now, though, now that she's a married lady, a baroness, even, there can be no time for such frivolities. All her life is dedicated to running the household for her husband, and trying to help him heal from the scars of his past.

And these scars are all too real. Cosette still doesn't know exactly what happened on that fateful night that the barricades fell, and Marius refuses to tell her, but she knows that he lost his best— and only— friend in the world then, as well as several of his acquaintances, the old man he'd often visited, and Eponine Thénardier. Poor Eponine— Cosette regrets every day that she never got the chance to tell her that she'd forgiven her long ago. Now, it's too late.

Cosette sighs gently, turning back to her knitting. She's making a pair of socks for Marius, since he still insists that she live as cheaply as possible so as not to spend her father's money. She resents this a bit; her father was a good man, and the way Marius had treated him was a sore subject between them for a long time. She's forgiven him now, but it rankles that even now, even when her Papa's name has been cleared, Marius still harbors some unpleasant feelings towards him.

Then, too, the onus is on her to keep the house running on a small budget. Marius works, but when he comes home, he only sits in his chair, staring out into the garden with unseeing eyes. Cosette has learned not to disturb him, since doing so will result only in explosions of temper on his end, and tears on hers. They never talk anymore, not unless it's vague and uninformative whispers about Marius's past, there are no more words of love or gentle embraces, and there's no one to help ease her burdens. She's as lonely as she was before, only now, she has no hope of anything being different.

She tries not to complain. She still loves Marius, and though she finds it hard to keep a smile on her face each day, she pushes through the darkness, trying to create her own light in a house where nothing shines. And of course, she knows that Marius is traumatized, and it will probably take him years to recover, if, in fact, he ever does, so she doesn't blame him for his outbursts or his cutting words.

Still, she wishes things were easier.

It's while she's thinking these thoughts, that there comes a knock on the door. It's late, after usual visiting hours, and she isn't expecting anyone, but she isn't afraid, not of a stranger in the night. The only thing that frightens her now is the stranger in the bedroom upstairs.

Without ceremony, because she never did stand on that, she pulls open the door, not knowing whom to expect, and starts in surprise, because standing there, by herself, is a young woman, dressed too lightly for the night air, and obviously pregnant.

"Good evening," she says quickly, as if afraid that Cosette will shut the door again. "My name's Musichetta, and I have a… connection with your husband. Please, can I come in?"

Cosette likes her straightforward manner and her low, throaty voice, and the connection with Marius intrigues her, so she pulls the door open a little wider, and beckons for her to enter.

"Please sit," she says, after leading the way into the sitting room, and sitting down herself. Her guest follows suite, looking around her with an interested air.

"Your house is right fancy. I heard you was a baroness."

"That's right," says Cosette, feeling awkward as she usually does when her new high-class identity is brought up. "Anyway, may I fetch you anything? Tea, or some cake, maybe?"

"You don't have to do that. I'm all right." Musichetta peers at Cosette with some curiosity. "You're young. How long you been married?"

"About five months now."

"Not long, then."

"No."

Cosette waits for just a heartbeat, wanting to see if Musichetta will say anything else, but she doesn't, so it seems all right to question her further.

"What connection do you have with my husband?"

Musichetta looks at the floor. "It's not happy. See, your man was acquainted with my two… ah, special friends. But they… when the barricades went up…"

"I understand," says Cosette quickly, not wanting her to have to talk at length about something that's so obviously distressing to her. "What were your friends' names?"

"Joly and Bossuet."

"He's mentioned them on occasion," says Cosette, though really, it's been a little less than an occasion. In fact, Marius has probably only said their names about twice. She doesn't want to tell Musichetta this, though, so she leaves it there.

Musichetta brightens, and looks relieved. "I'm so glad. I know he and Bossuet were on good terms, but I didn't know if he would remember us, now that he's rich and all."

"I'm sure he would remember you."

"I hope so. But the reason I'm coming to you today is… well. I'm in the family way, as you can see, only I've no family to speak of, now that my boys are gone. I've lost my job and my apartment, and most of my friends, too, and I've nowhere to turn. So I thought, maybe if you and your man were willing to show me some compassion…"

Again, Cosette is struck by her straightforward manner. She really doesn't mince words, and it's refreshing, such a difference from the vague high-society folk whom Cosette is used to. All at once, she makes up her mind.

"I would be delighted if you would stay with us, Miss Musichetta."

"Oh, no miss for me," says Musichetta, embarrassed. "I'm just a common girl, not like you."

"I'm a common girl at heart as well," Cosette tells her firmly. "And this house is a republic, so in the name of equality, you must call me Euphrasie, or better still, Cosette."

"Cosette. That's a right pretty name." Musichetta smiles at her, a pleasant, toothy grin. "I'm so glad to make your acquaintance, Cosette."

"The same to you," Cosette tells her, unsure as to why she feels so off-balance. Usually, she's adept at meeting new people, charming them, sweeping them off their feet. But now, she feels as if she's the one being swept away. Something about Musichetta is incredibly disarming. She feels as if she's been plucked out of a comfortable nest and cast out to fly on unsteady wings for the first time. This is a strange and new experience, and she has no idea what to do, but she's sure that she wants to do her best to make her new guest feel at home.

"You remind me of one of the boys," says Musichetta suddenly. "The leader, the pretty one. He looked a mite like you."

"Really?"

"Yes. He was blond, though, and thinner, and a bit paler, but he was your height, and he had your eyes. He was a funny one, he was. I've never met anyone that passionate, and likely never will again."

"What was his name?"

"Enjolras. He was one of the only ones to take me serious. I wish I'd gotten to know him better."

Cosette doesn't really know what to say. The comparison is flattering, she thinks, because Musichetta's tone is warm, and she's smiling softly to herself, but it's awkward to be compared to a dead boy whom she's never even heard of before. So, she decides to change the subject as gracefully as she can.

"Would you tell me more about those boys? And Eponine. I knew her as a child, but I never got the chance to reconcile with her."

"Sure, I will." Musichetta sits back, slings her arm over the back of the couch, and starts in immediately, describing each of the young revolutionaries in detail. By the time she's done, Cosette feels like she knows them all intimately.

"They all sound like they were wonderful," she says. "I wish I had gotten the chance to know them."

"You would've liked them. I knew it as soon as you said the word republic. You and they would've got along."

For a second, Cosette feels horribly, unbearably sad. Those young revolutionaries were only a little older than she is herself, glowing with youth and enthusiasm and potential. And yet, nothing came of it but an early grave. She wonders if this is how Marius feels every day, and if so, how he can even bear to live.

"It's getting late," she says, attempting to shake herself out of her melancholy. "Please let me prepare a room for you."

"That would be splendid." Musichetta gets up, carefully, of course, and follows Cosette upstairs to where the spare bedrooms are. Musichetta has only a small bag with her, presumably containing all her worldly possessions, so Cosette fetches clothing and towels and water for her, so she can change and wash up.

"Is there anything else you need?" she asks, once Musichetta is comfortably ensconced in her room, playing with the lace of her nightgown in obvious delight. Musichetta looks up and smiles.

"No, I don't think so. You've been so kind. I should let you get some rest now."

Cosette isn't sure how much rest she's really going to get— she barely sleeps nowadays— but she nods politely, and goes to the door. "Sleep well."

"You as well."

Cosette leaves, shutting the door softly behind her. It's late, and she really should be getting to bed herself, even if it's only to lie awake and listen to Marius cry in his sleep, but somehow, there's a current of wild energy in her, poking and prodding her until she's gone downstairs, slipped through the French doors, and stepped outside into the garden.

She hasn't gone out to the garden since before she was married, because she's been so busy, and they have a gardner who comes in every week to maintain the place, so there's no need for her to concern herself with its upkeep, but now she remembers why she'd loved it so much. It's exhilarating, being so free under the night sky, twirling among the flowers, stepping off the garden paths to feel the softness of the grass, taking deep breaths of fresh, cool air, and feeling ready to shout aloud, just to express the ineffable immensity inside her.

She's alive, she thinks, fiercely, beautifully, dangerously alive. Her house may be a dark and silent one, but inside her, there's a brilliant, inexpressible light. How could she have forgotten? She's a lark, and she was made to soar.

"You're mine, beautiful world," she whispers to the breeze. "I can do anything tonight, anything at all. It's a secret, but just for tonight, the world was made for me."

The breeze whispers back in its zephyr language, and she fancies she can half-understand. Everything is wild and free tonight, and for this moment, she's immortal, a young goddess, touched by the glowing divinity of nature.

She twirls up and down the path, dancing to a melody all her own. Her feet never seem to touch the ground; she's dancing on cloud and air. As she whirls past the dim golden light of the house, she's half-aware of a figure in her periphery, but she doesn't pay much attention. It must be a ghost, maybe one of the revolutionaries whose stories Musichetta had told, peeking past the veil, striving to touch joy and laughter one last time. Let them share the night with me, she thinks. The magic under the stars is infinite.

So absorbed is she in her dance that she misses the moment when the figure in the doorway steps into her path, and she spins right up into their arms. They're very much flesh-and-blood, not a ghost at all, and she looks up to recognize them in startled joy.

"Musichetta!"

"Cosette." Musichetta's voice is as rich and full as ever, backed by notes of throaty laughter. "What are you doing, dancing around in the garden by yourself?"

Seized by a wild impulse, Cosette takes her hand and pulls her off the path and onto the velvet lawn. "Don't you feel it? The world belongs to us tonight!"

Musichetta throws back her head and laughs. Her throat is lovely in the moonlight. "Don't we belong to the world?"

"No," sings Cosette, pulling her into a dance. "We belong to the stars."

"I always loved the stars," allows Musichetta. "My ma told me that's where the angels live."

"Then, we must be angels."

Cosette leads Musichetta into a sort of waltz, one hand clasping hers, and the other on her waist. She starts to hum the melody that she had danced to earlier, and Musichetta, after listening for a few bars, starts to hum in harmony. They dance like that for what seems simultaneously like hours and seconds, two shadows becoming one on the dew-strewn grass, until finally, Musichetta sinks down onto the garden bench, out of breath. Cosette sits beside her, but she doesn't let go of her hand. Somehow, it feels right to be connected like this.

"I think you're right," says Musichetta at length, after she's gotten her breath back. Cosette looks at her, trading the view of the stars in the sky for the stars in her eyes.

"What?"

"You're right. We're angels. Or leastwise, you are."

"Then, so are you. An angel come to earth to dance with me."

Musichetta leans up a little closer. Her eyes are wide, limpid pools of starlight, and her rosebud lips are parted just slightly, as if she's about to speak, but she doesn't say anything, just continues to look at Cosette as if she really is an angel.

For her part, Cosette feels her heart fluttering in her chest in a way that hasn't happened since she first met Marius. Barely aware of what she's doing, she leans in, too, but the distance still seems too great. Slowly, she brings up her free hand to hold Musichetta's face.

"May I?"

She's not even sure what she's asking for until Musichetta nods eagerly, and then they're kissing, soft lips on soft lips, nothing between them, and everything shared.

Although Cosette had taken control initially, she really doesn't know much about kissing, having only romanced one person in her life, so when Musichetta takes over, she yields, all but melting into her. She seems to know a great deal, and Cosette is lost.

"Oh," she breathes, when Musichetta finally pulls away with one last gentle bite to her lower lip. "Oh, Musichetta—"

"Cosette."

And then they're kissing again, and everything in the world fades away. There's only the two of them, them alone, and the stars.

They stay there until light begins to curl around the edges of the sky, and then finally, regretfully, Cosette pulls away and gets to her feet.

"I've kept you from sleep," she says.

Musichetta smiles. "But angel, the night was made for us. How could we sleep?"

A great surge of affection aches in Cosette's heart. She offers her hand, and helps Musichetta to her feet. "Would you allow me to share your bed?" she asks.

"I would like nothing more."

So, hand-in-hand, they go inside and walk upstairs to Musichetta's room. They change, having spoiled their nightgowns with dew and grass stains, and climb into bed. Cosette puts her head against Musichetta's shoulder, and it feels so right and natural that she can't help but drop a kiss there. Musichetta, in turn, kisses the top of Cosette's head.

Although Cosette isn't feeling as giddy anymore, she's rapturously happy in a way that she hasn't been in a long time. Something inside her soul has started to unfurl, spreading new, fragile wings, awakening for the first time in what seems like forever. Tonight is a turning point, she thinks. From now on, she can never look back.

—

Morning brings solemnity, and the realization of what's just happened. Cosette leaves Musichetta sleeping in her bed and guiltily creeps into the bedroom that she shares with Marius. Marius is still asleep, lying flat on his back with a horrible grimace on his face, as if he's fighting off demons in his sleep. He probably is. His life is not an easy one. Cosette climbs into bed beside him, and lies down. This way, she can be with him when he wakes.

It doesn't take long. After several minutes, he lets out a groan, and opens his eyes. "No," he says.

"You're safe, my dear," says Cosette. "You're here with me in our house, and nothing has happened. Everything is fine."

"Cosette?"

"Yes, I'm here."

"Why didn't you stay with me last night? I woke up, and you weren't here. Don't you know by now that I need someone with me at night?"

Cosette takes his hand. "I'm sorry, my dear. Circumstances have changed in our household, and an urgent matter demanded my attention."

"That's no excuse," says Marius pettishly. "I'm your husband. I should come first."

He's not saying anything different from what he usually does, but Cosette has to bite down an edge of annoyance. Far be it from her to have responsibilities, and other pastimes besides coddling him and catering to his every whim.

Just as soon as this bitter and sarcastic thought comes into her head, however, she dismisses it, mentally chastising herself. He's her husband, and she promised to be with him through whatever might come, difficult though it might be. He's suffering, and it's not right to blame him for this.

"I'm sorry," she says. "Now, listen. I have something to tell you."

Marius sits up, looking at her critically. "Are you having an affair?"

"No," says Cosette, though really, how else could she describe those few stolen hours with Musichetta last night? She decides to think about this later. "Marius, do you remember… well, of course you do. Your friends, Bossuet and Joly, their—"

"Don't talk about them," interrupts Marius, his face darkening with wrath. "They're gone now, and nothing is going to bring them back. I want to forget."

"But…"

"I said, enough. Now, why don't you go prepare breakfast? It's getting late."

This is a difficult situation. Cosette ponders over it as she dresses herself and goes downstairs to start cooking. Marius may not want to confront the fact that his friends' legacies haven't died with them, but he's going to have to once he sees Musichetta, and presumably, recognizes her. Will he be angry? Most likely. After all, that does seem to be his default state these days.

Cosette has just set the table, when there's a flutter of movement behind her, and an arm snakes around her waist, pulling her close. "Good morning," comes a chocolate-rich voice in her ear, still raspy from sleep, and at a timbre to make Cosette's knees feel weak. She turns, and lays her head briefly against the offered shoulder.

"Good morning, Musichetta."

Musichetta kisses the crown of her head. "Can I help with anything?"

"You could run away with me."

The words are out before Cosette can think to moderate them, but now that they're hanging in the air, she realizes that she doesn't want to take them back. She's known Musichetta for less than twenty-four hours, but they've already exchanged the keys to each other's hearts, and there's no taking that back, either. Musichetta steps away so Cosette can see her eyes sparkling.

"We could go to London, Warsaw, Prague, Venice— we'd see everything the world has to offer us. And then we'd settle down in a little cottage in Anjou, grow pear trees, and dance in the meadows every spring."

"I would wear bright colors again," says Cosette, taking up the strain. "Our house would always be filled with laughter, and all our curtains would be made of cotton to let in the sun. We would bake our bread, cultivate our gardens— and of course, we would have a piano, and a cat, and the neighborhood children would follow us when we went out and would sing with us in chorus."

Musichetta smiles and kisses her cheek. "And we would have each other, which would be the greatest happiness of all."

Cosette finds herself unable to speak for a moment, so overwhelmed as she is in emotion. In just a few sentences, she and Musichetta have painted a picture of the sweetest life, one which she would give anything to lead. She doesn't know if it's wistfulness or exhilaration that she feels, but whatever it is, it's enough to make her set a hand on Musichetta's waist, and one on her shoulder, and twirl her around the room in a more sedate version of the dance they'd shared last night.

"We must plant flowers," she half-sings, eyes fixed on Musichetta's lovely face. "Violets and lavender and roses and daisies, and a sunflower for you, since you shine like the rays from heaven."

Musichetta smiles, and is opening her mouth to reply, when there's a sound from the staircase, and Marius comes down into the room.

"What's this?"

"Oh!" Cosette steps away from Musichetta, feeling only the slightest bit guilty. After all, it's not a crime to dance with another woman, is it? Even though you're fantasizing about leaving your husband for her, whispers her conscience, but she shoos the thought away. "Good morning, Marius. This is Musichetta. She's going to be staying with us."

"You…" Marius comes close to Musichetta and looks her deep in the eyes. He seems to be searching for something. "Was it not enough for your friends to die? Must you come and make me miserable as well?"

"That is not my intention, sir," says Musichetta crisply. "Plainly put, I need a place to stay. And as your wife has so generously offered…"

"I see." Marius turns, face set. "Cosette, may I speak to you in the other room?"

It's not a question, no matter how it's phrased. Cosette bites back a sigh, and follows him to the kitchen, knowing exactly what conversation is about to take place.

"Marius," she begins, but he turns on her and cuts her off.

"How could you, Cosette? Don't you know how painful the past is? Why couldn't you leave well enough alone?"

"It's simply human decency. She was seeking shelter, and we have that to provide. Didn't you see, she's with child. She needs—"

"What she needs is to get out," says Marius. "I won't have her here, trying to ruin the happiness I've worked so hard to build. The past is dead. Let it stay that way."

"But, my dear. Are you happy?" Cosette ignores Marius's outraged expression, raising a hand to stop what will probably be a vitriolic tirade. "You sleep badly, you barely speak, you're full of anger, and you can't seem to heal. Maybe it would be good for you to have someone else here."

"But… her?"

"Why not? Maybe she could give you some closure on the past."

Now, Marius turns away, maybe to hide the surge of emotion on his face. His shoulders are shaking. "There can be no closure. Not for me."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't deserve it. My friends died and I lived, only to turn my back on their cause and live a life of luxury. They should have lived. They were the ones who deserve this. Courfeyrac… he could have married you. He could have been happy. Only, he died, and I…"

Marius breaks down into full-fledged sobs, caved in on himself, as if he can barely stand. Cosette goes to him, and sets a hand on his bowed back.

"My dear, you are being too hard on yourself. There's nothing wrong with living after your friends have gone."

"But I abandoned their cause. In fact, I only really joined them because I thought I would never see you again. I never really believed, and now, I know I have a duty to carry on what they started, but it's too late."

"It's not too late." Cosette moves closer and puts her arm around him, noting how hard he's trembling, and feeling a note of pain tear her heart. "You can still carry on with their work. Yes, your friends have died, but they were not the only ones to rebel that night. There are other groups you might join, other ways—"

"I can't."

His words have a chilling finality. Cosette realizes that as things stand, he can't recover his passion for politics, and won't be able to fight for freedom now. That night on the barricades took so much away from him, so much that he might never recover. She feels as if she's been stabbed through the chest, realizing this, but somewhere, deep down inside her soul, there's a little golden glowing light of determination salving the pain.

"Then," she says. "I will do it for you. I will carry on their work, take up the torch they've passed. I will do my part to create a republic in which every man can be free."

Her voice comes out more clear and ringing than she had expected, because Musichetta, having overheard her, puts her head through the doorway with wide and curious eyes.

"Do you mean that, Cosette? Will you really take up the work the boys were doing?"

"Yes," says Cosette firmly. "I may not know much, and I am only one person, but I am educated and I have the money and the energy and the time to do my part. It is my duty to the world to do this."

Musichetta comes fully into the room now. She's smiling, and it lights up her pretty face like a candle in a window. "If that's so," she says. "Then, I can help you. See, my boys told me about their business, and they left me instructions as to what might need to be done if the worst happened. I haven't done nothing about it, but now, I think we can. Together."

"Together," Cosette repeats. "Yes, I think we can."

Marius makes a sound, and Cosette turns to him, almost having forgotten that he was there. He's frowning, still hunched and spiritless like a broken violin, and there's hurt in his eyes, sharp and clear.

"So you would abandon me," he says, as soon as he sees her looking at him. "You would go off to change the world and leave me alone, with nothing to comfort me but memories of the dead."

"I would not," Cosette tells him decidedly. "Yes, I will work to better the world, and Musichetta and I will make it our mission. But that doesn't mean I will forget you. I will still be here with you to hold you at night and wipe away your tears."

Marius doesn't look convinced. "You're my wife. Your duty is to me."

But Cosette shakes her head, unable to let this go. In the past, she might have agreed, might have given up her newfound goal, but now, she knows that this is something she can never do, not even for Marius's sake.

"I may be your wife," she says. "But I am also a citizen of the world. My duty is to the world, and yes, you are part of it, and I love you so; I would never abandon you. But I feel that there is now a higher call. We strive towards a larger goal, my dear, and our little lives barely count for anything."

Musichetta makes a startled sort of sound. "Cosette— that's what Enjolras said. Almost in the same words, too. You really are like him."

"You are," says Marius lugubriously. "I can hardly believe this. My own wife, turning before my eyes into the spirit of a dead boy? How can I make peace with this?"

Clearly, he's not pleased, but just as clearly, Musichetta is, and Cosette is inclined to be as well. It's flattering to be compared to the leader of the revolution, and it's heartening to hear that her rhetoric nearly matches his. By all accounts, he was a very good leader, and she's happy to follow in his path.

"I know this is hard," she says. "And I apologize, my dear. But I truly do believe that this is my purpose, and there can be no turning back from it."

Marius's face twists, and he lets out a bitter laugh. "Very well. I suppose I could expect nothing less. Godspeed, then, and do not expect to see me at your funeral."

With this, he turns, picks up his hat and coat, and stalks out the door. Cosette isn't sure where he's going, and she's tempted to follow him, but Musichetta lays a hand on her arm.

"Let him go. He needs the time."

"But what if he does something reckless?"

"Knowing him, he may. But I know that he'll be all right. He's a tough one."

This isn't exactly reassuring, but Cosette can't help but trust her. After all, she knows Marius, too, and she has the benefit of being slightly detached from the situation, so her judgement may be more objective. Cosette lowers her arm so that their hands can twine together.

"In that case, shall we sit down? I would love to hear your ideas on how to get started on building the republic."

—

It's easier after that. Cosette and Musichetta work together to bring back the revolution, writing pamphlets, visiting sundry revolutionary groups, and even spreading seditious information among their ever-growing circle of friends. Cosette imagines that it's a little more difficult for them than it had been for the boys, since people are less inclined to take them seriously, and thanks to their positions in society, there are some places where they simply can't go. But they do their best, and each night, Cosette goes to sleep glowing with excitement and determination.

Musichetta, too, seems to be blossoming. Her smiles and laughter become all the more frequent, and she brings light to the house in a way that Cosette had been missing for months. She works tirelessly, staying up late into the night long after Cosette has gone to bed to be with Marius, and often, she wakes before the dawn to make breakfast and ready things up for the day. It reminds Cosette of her past life, when she didn't have to do everything by herself. Although it feels strange, she thinks she could get used to it. Having Musichetta in the house is a truly a blessing.

Not only is Musichetta helpful in material ways; she provides a balm to Cosette's soul as well. She doesn't offer kisses anymore, and she never says anything flirtatious, but somehow, her warmth insinuates itself into Cosette's heart, lighting it up, and giving it wings to soar. Whenever Cosette turns, Musichetta is there by her side, ready to offer a witty comment, or a helpful suggestion, or even just a hand to hold. If it weren't for Marius, Cosette thinks, she would consider herself as the true partner of this exceptional and lovely woman.

Months pass like this, happy, busy months filled with flurries of activity and calls to revolution, and soon, Musichetta is lying in her bed, screaming and clinging to Cosette's hand as she brings her child into the world. Marius is nowhere to be seen, of course; he never spends any time where Musichetta is, and Cosette hadn't wanted to leave her side to find a doctor, but she knows what to do. Often, women had come to the convent where she grew up, needing reassurance, and often, they had given birth there. So it's not hard for her to help Musichetta by herself, and when the child is finally born, Cosette is the first to hold her and welcome her into the world.

"What will you name her?" she asks, looking with fascination at those tiny hands and feet. Musichetta gives her a weary, contented smile.

"There's only one name I could give her. Euphrasie."

For a second, Cosette is confused, thinking Musichetta is speaking to her. But then, she realizes, and gasps aloud, feeling a rush of warmth so intense that her face flushes and her heart begins to beat a little faster.

"You would name her after me?"

"Of course. I owe you a great deal, Cosette, but more than that, I love you dearly. It is the most natural thing in the world to name my daughter after you."

Cosette is speechless. She goes to the bed and kisses Musichetta on the forehead, gentle and mindful of her exhausted face and sweat-soaked hair, lingering there until she has to pull away. Wordlessly, she reaches out and cups Musichetta's cheek, stroking her thumb back and forth across the soft skin.

"You are wonderful," she says at length. Musichetta turns her head into the caress.

"You're the wonderful one. I love you, Cosette."

"I love you, too."

There's a sound at the doorway, and Cosette straightens up and turns around to see Marius there, face pale and eyes lowered, and with a resigned set to his mouth.

"Cosette," he says.

"Marius, my dear. Look, Musichetta has a daughter now, and she's named her after me!"

"I know. I've been standing here for awhile."

Cosette is a little surprised at this, but she masks it well. "What can I do for you?" she asks.

Finally, Marius comes into the room. Solemnly, he takes Musichetta's hand and places it into Cosette's, closing their fingers over each other's.

"I have seen how you love each other," he says. "And I could never hope to stand in the way of that. You two should be together now."

Cosette can't deny the jolt of excitement and love that shoots through her heart, but something still isn't right. She cocks her head.

"What about you?"

"Me?" Marius laughs humorlessly. "I've been alone all my life. I'm used to it by now."

Cosette shakes her head. As much as she loves Musichetta, she loves Marius, too, and she knows she could never leave him alone like that, never. He's too important to her.

"My dear," she says. "I think you have the wrong idea. Yes, I love Musichetta. But you were my first love, and will always be. I will never leave you."

"But you…"

"I have an idea," Cosette continues. "We have all lived here in harmony, have we not? Why couldn't we continue to live in this way? I will share my heart between the two of you. Love is an infinite resource, and is not made worse by its sharing. Let me love both of you. I promise, there is enough of me to go around."

Musichetta's and Marius's faces register blank astonishment, but, Cosette is relieved to see, euphoric happiness as well. Musichetta clasps her hand a little tighter, as if trying to ascertain for herself that she's real.

"Do you mean it? Would you really love us both?"

"I have done so for months. Why should it be different now?"

"But can you truly…" Marius trails off, though it seems the light of heaven has settled in his eyes. "Cosette, could you really…"

"Yes, my dear. I love you. And now I am giving my heart to another, but that does not mean that you do not possess it still. You are both so important to me, and I could never choose between you. So I will not. Let us live like this, three happy people instead of three miserable ones."

Marius steps up close to her and puts a hand on her waist. He tilts her head up with a soft hand, and kisses her, the first kiss they've shared in months. She tangles her free hand in his hair, bringing him closer, and squeezes Musichetta's hand with the other. When they finally break apart, she takes his hand, then goes to kiss Musichetta.

"I love you both," she sings out, too happy to keep it all inside. "I love you, I love you! I know this house will be a happy one now."

"It will," says Marius, and then, much to her surprise, "I would like to help you in the revolution."

Cosette can't even speak for a minute, so surprised as she is. But then, she lets go of Musichetta and wraps both her arms around his neck instead. "Marius, do you mean that? Would you really help us?"

"I would. If you would have me."

"We would. Wouldn't we, my love?" Cosette looks at Musichetta, who nods.

"We would be glad of the help, my friend."

"Then," says Cosette, stepping back from Marius so she can take the hands of both her loves, "I declare us to be partners. We will change this world through love."

"Through love," repeats Musichetta. "That's beautiful."

And it is. Cosette knows, sure as anything, that it will be love that changes the world, and yes, it may be difficult, and the change will be hard-won, and bloodier than anyone could want, but it will be real, and it will be lasting. Her house— her own little republic— is proof of that. If things can change for the good here, there is no reason that the world can't follow suite.

"The world is ours," she says. "Let's change it."


End file.
